


Breathe In and Move On

by Marie (VampireSpider)



Category: The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay - Michael Chabon
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-12
Updated: 2008-06-12
Packaged: 2018-01-25 01:45:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1624964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampireSpider/pseuds/Marie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and the grieving process</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe In and Move On

**Author's Note:**

> Written for fiercynn

 

 

Stupidly, all Sam could think at first was, there should have been a sign. A heads-up that this was going to happen - that he was going to walk into the office to find the girl at the desk holding a standard air force envelope, an apologetic look on her face. `This came for you,' she said, as if he didn't realize. `I'm sorry for your loss,' and wasn't that a joke, when he didn't even know who he'd lost.

That was the worst part - holding the letter, knowing it could only be one of two people and not knowing which he'd rather it be. Something in him ached, like it had done before Tracy left. Before Joe left, and suddenly it felt impossible to open the letter. It was equally impossible not to - for Rosa, if nothing else, she deserved to know if Joe - if Joe - if the letter was about Joe. Sam considered ringing her; she'd know what to do. He'd do it too, whatever she told him; another reason not to call her. She would open the letter, rip it open and devour what was within, and really, Sam admired it, that all-out emotion, that honesty. Another way she differed from Joe and from him. 

He looked at the letter, lying on his desk, next to drafts of stories, the cheap pens he still wrote with, a picture of Rosa, a picture of Tommy, and it felt wrong. He couldn't open the letter here, a place so - so comfortable, so settled. The secretary gave him a worried look as he went past, but he didn't stop. He didn't stop to think, just got in his car and navigated carefully out of the city. When he reached the exit, he didn't hesitate. 

The interstate was surprisingly quiet, only a few cars on the road, and Sam found himself longing for the normal roar. For a moment, he wished he hadn't left the city; the noise and the chaos might have been comforting, or at least distracting. Perhaps he should have found a bar, somewhere he could drink as he read the letter.

Except - except, he wanted to be sober. He needed to be sober. He needed to be able to control his thoughts. For Rosa, for Tommy. For himself. He had to face this and then he could face Rosa, be strong for her when he told her about Joe. About what happened. 

He parked the car in the lot of the World's Fair, staring at the odd shapes of the exhibition and wishing he'd known when he'd woken up that morning. Wishing there had been a warning. Joe could have been dead for a week, and he hadn't known. Tracy could have - could be - Sam blinked rapidly, fumbling for the letter. He wasn't Joe - he couldn't wait any longer, he couldn't draw this out. Not reading the letter wouldn't change the facts, wouldn't bring - wouldn't change anything. 

His hands weren't shaking and his sight didn't blur as he opened the letter. It contained a further envelope, which Sam set aside on the dashboard before taking out the letter. He barely hesitated before unfolding the official letter, the Air Force stamp glaring at him. 

Tracy Bacon. The name on the letter said Tracy Bacon, with Samuel Klayman listed as next of kin, and Sam's hands were numb, he barely felt the letter fall from his hands. He had a brief moment of wishing Rosa were there - she would be able to read the letter; she could tell him how Tracy died. Except, fuck, he didn't care about the how, what did it matter how? No doubt the letter also informed him of how Tracy died serving his country, died honourably and fuck that too. Sam stared at the lumpy silhouettes of the fair, and thought, if only, if only, over and over without knowing how to finish the sentence. 

He hadn't thought about Tracy Bacon since that day on the train - hadn't let himself, even though Tracy occasionally sent a postcard or letter. Sam had thought about Rosa, about Tommy, about his work, about his mother, even about Joe and his disappearance. Tracy had been relegated to a ghost, occasionally making his presence known on a poster outside a movie theatre, or as a voice on the radio when Sam didn't dial past fast enough, or even more rarely, in a dream. Now, irrationally, Sam found himself wishing he'd thought about him more, carried around a mental image of Tracy, in the tower, at the fair; now, when he tried to remember, the memories were groggy, imprecise, and they were all he had. 

He pressed his hands against his eyes, willing himself to stop crying. There was still the other letter, lying on the dashboard, reproaching him. He picked it up, and his hand barely shook as he opened it. The sight of Tracy's handwriting was almost enough to make him drop the letter, but he breathed in and read the few lines. 

_Sam_

So. I guess this is supposed to be goodbye. I wonder what the protocol is for a letter like this? I forgive you, I guess. I miss you. The flying's not what I expected, but it's not bad and if I die, it'll be fighting the enemies of the Escapist. Appropriate, don't you think?

Thanks for everything, Sam. For the Escapist, for being my friend. For showing me the World's Fair. You're the best. 

Affectionately,

Tracy

It surged through him, the shocking memory of Tracy's mouth around his fingers, taking him by surprise. He'd be so young. They'd been so young, and here he was, almost middle-aged and crying alone in a car in a suburb of New York, and Tracy was dead. 

***

Rosa looked up as Sam came in, and stood as she saw his face, the letter in his hand. "Joe?" she said and Sam could see that keeping her voice steady was an effort. He shook his head. 

"Tracy," he said, and breathed in deeply. It was nothing like the stories, where the two survivors understood each other, knew what to say; instead, Rosa's eyes watered and she stood. 

"Oh, Sam," she said, and made as if to hug him, but he stepped back. There was a sudden surge of anger through him - how dare she? Tracy wasn't hers to be sad about, wasn't hers to mourn. Joe was still alive, she had had Joe, and now Tracy was dead and Sam couldn't even get on a stupid train and apologize to him.

Rosa took another step forward and this time Sam didn't move. Instead, he let her hug him, and was surprised to find that she wasn't shaking, but he was. 

In another room, Tommy started crying.

***

He found himself in the kitchen at 6 am, watching the sun coming up and listening to "The Escapist" on the radio. Tracy's voice came out crackly and tinny; Sam had the volume down low, listening more to the sound than the words. Why should he? He could remember the plot, the villain, the trap set, everything. Instead, he let the hum of Tracy lure him into memory lane, recalling waking up with Tracy, something that had only happened three or four times, listening to Tracy go from mumbling and yawning to his normal smooth voiced self. 

Rosa wasn't asleep, he knew. He'd left her tossing and turning an hour earlier, stopping to check on Tommy to make sure he was still sleeping. Since then he'd been playing with the radio, catching snatches of the news (filled with reports from the war and death counts, and he dialled past quickly) and occasional shows until he heard Tracy's voice and found himself unable to move. 

"I've been writing a letter to Joe," Rosa said. Sam started. "I told him about Tracy." Sam nodded, listening to Tracy say the last few lines of the show more than Rosa. The music that signalled the end of the programme came on, and he looked up. "I thought you might want to add something," she said. 

"What do you want me to write?" he asked. `Why him and not you,' his mind supplied.

"I don't know." Rosa shrugged, an exaggerated expression of helplessness. "I just thought - " She looked as if she might cry, her eyes reddening slightly, and Sam was seized with a sudden fondness, a tender feeling he sometimes had when he was reminded of their shared loneliness. He reached out for the letter and picked up a pen. _`I'm glad you're still alive. I hope you're still alive._ It seemed disloyal almost. _I miss you._ Rosa's letters already said that - it coloured every word of her writing. _Come back, come home._ He couldn't make himself write that; it was too real, too much like acknowledging that Joe was gone. That Tracy was gone and he and Rosa were left on their own. 

In the end he scrawled _Hi Buddy_. Rosa squeezed his shoulder and took the letter from him. Sam reached over and turned off the radio.

 


End file.
